what cultivation technique did you use to make me love you?
by Rendered Reversed
Summary: !Wuxia!AU! In a world where magic doesn't exist, Hogwarts is not a school of witchcraft and wizardry but of cultivation, and new student Harry Potter has been scouted by the venerable Grand Master Riddle for his mysterious potential in martial arts. Little does he know, the 'power the Dark Lord knows not' takes on a different meaning... [Slow build; eventual slash]
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Slow build, very eventual romance, wuxia/xianxia AU, Master-of-Death!Harry

 **Pairing** : eventual LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter), eventual TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

 **Summary:** In a world where magic doesn't exist, supernatural power goes by another name. Hogwarts is not a school of witchcraft and wizardry but of cultivation, and new student Harry Potter has been scouted by the venerable Grand Master Riddle for his mysterious potential in martial arts.

Little does he know, the 'power the Dark Lord knows not' takes on a different meaning.

 **Disclaimer** **:** Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling

This fic was inspired by Chinese web-novels _Tales of Demons and Gods_ by Mad Snail, and _Coiling Dragon_ by I Eat Tomatoes. You can read their translations on wuxiaworld(-dot-)com!

 **Additional Notes (Background):** This fic is a _wuxia_ (specifically _xianxia_ ) AU, a genre of Chinese novel that focuses on adventure, action, martial arts, and a protagonist that is or will eventually become OP in his/her field. _Wuxia_ usually takes place in ancient times, or a medieval/feudal world where technology is limited and hierarchy is based on how "strong" a person is (either in their field of expertise or in martial rank). _Xianxia_ is exactly all those things (a _wuxia_ ), except with the addition of 'magic,' or supernatural ability (with elemental spells and mystical objects that defy the laws of nature).

 **Thus, this work will contain the occasional Chinese term, which I will explain in the text. If you have any questions about these terms or the AU in general, feel free to PM me/leave a review with your question and I'll get back to you about it to the best of my ability.**

* * *

"Where did you send me this time, Death?" Harry muttered.

Ever since he had become the Master of Death in his first life, his existence had been stuck in the cycle of reincarnation. Time and time again, into the past or into the future, Harry had been inserted in all manners of different situations. He had been born a girl as many times as he had been born a boy. From the most rural of villages to the most concentrated urban centers, he'd been born on every continent at least more than a dozen times each.

Time was not linear. Once, Harry had been born as a little boy living in ancient Mesopotamia, and another time he had been born in the 35th century United States. By and large he'd stopped wondering when it would end—the entity that he'd become acquainted with seemed to get some cosmic sort of amusement out of it all.

What Harry _really_ wondered was what sort of life he'd be living now. Rarely was he ever given the chance to live a peaceful life. Something always happened. He'd fought everything from aliens to muggles to _zombies_ —not inferi, _zombies_ —and so he had enough experience to make an educated guess that the lives he lived did not necessarily take place in one universe.

Muggle multi-verse theory. He was familiar with that, now. But regardless of however it _normally_ worked, whatever was the _true_ answer, Harry knew he would never find an escape on his own. Death sent him wherever they pleased. If there was a door out of here, Death had the sole copy of the key, and they weren't going to hand it over anytime soon.

Harry was, after all, the only occupant of the being's world. What world of the afterlife there was, Death had no power over, and the earthly realm that humans lived in was something like beneath their dinner table. They rarely went there, and if they did it was because they had 'dropped' something. They were not a deity to be worshipped, to lord over the mortals below—their job, simply enough, was that of the ferryman's, bringing souls from life to death.

That was why Harry wasn't angry with them. He was somewhat tired of living over and over again, but he could take breaks in limbo when he wanted to. The train would come whenever he got too bored. He could not see those who had passed, but he'd long come to terms with that, too. It was a part of life—to meet and to part ways, momentarily crossing and walking the same path before taking different turns down the fork in the road. That was okay.

Death's sense of emotions was vague and maybe even just Harry's imagination, but he believed that any being with sentience could feel lonely. If Harry could abate some of that loneliness, then they were some form of friends. Besides, it wasn't like Death was malicious or sadistic. They simply…were. He found happiness as often as he did sorrow in his lives, pain as much as there was laughter.

Another thing was that, even though he'd _called it_ reincarnation, Harry wasn't always…born. He usually started off at a young age, but that also wasn't always the case. This time—he looked down at his hands, finding it too dark to see very well but the outline and shape was small and still developing. There were calluses, rough in the spots that rubbed against tools and rags, but at least he had all ten fingers this time.

The place he was in was…very small. But his body fit, and he felt that if he stood up then he would just barely brush the ceiling of it at the right spot. It was not entirely straight, the ceiling. Rather, it moved down at a slant like the roof of a house, but he couldn't possibly be in an attic. So where was he?

There was a door to his right that some light shone through the bottom. At his side was some sort of desk surface, though the room he was in was too small to house an actual desk. It must be some type of bedside table, or cabinet. Placed on top in some manner of orderliness were three plastic toy soldiers, a cardboard box, a near-empty-but-not-quite crinkled water bottle, and some other miscellaneous trinkets.

They looked like objects that were picked up somewhere rather than bought. There was no rhyme or reason to their identity, just that they all existed in the same room placed on the same surface and were under the (presumably) same ownership. Harry reached out, picking up a toy soldier that fit a good deal better in his child hands.

He wiggled his toes. All ten were there. When he shifted, he could hear the creak of the cot so he knew he wasn't deaf. Very quietly he made some noise to test if he was mute—his voice was that of a young boy's yet gone through puberty, but it worked. All of his limbs seemed to be in working order, and that he had the youth of a child probably saved him from back pain he would've gotten sleeping on the poor excuse of a bed he had.

The final test was the test of magic. Harry reached inside himself—done absently with the experience a supreme expert would have—and tried to summon up the well of magic circulating within his magical core. Wandless magic was not difficult for him. Unlike popular knowledge, wandless ability was not the mark of a powerful core—it took expertise and skill. If not possessing a great understanding of magic, then practice similar to flexing a muscle would suffice.

Now _tried_ being the key word, of course, because Harry discovered he had no magical core. Rather, there was something else instead…not necessarily attached to his soul like a leech or a compartment, but _outside_ like a container.

He had never seen this before. And, well, that was saying something.

Harry tried probing the container. It stretched a bit, but it was more like a thick wall of rubber than the thin body of a balloon. It was also protective in nature, though from the well of knowledge ingrained within his mind, Harry knew as it was now it was actually rather flimsy. He imagined it could be strengthened somehow, but he didn't yet know the methods to do so.

It wasn't the first time he had been without a magical core. It also wasn't the first time he had a _different_ power than magic—but it was the first time he had seen something of this nature, and being in a dark and enclosed space really didn't help.

 _Really,_ Harry mused, _where am I?_

 _"The cupboard under the stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,"_ a mild voice supplied in his mind. " _Master, we thought this would be a pleasant trip for you."_

"How generous of you," Harry said aloud. Death's laughter sounded like wind blowing through a chamber of bones. "I suppose that's all you're going to tell me."

 _"We could tell you more, but you wouldn't understand any of it. The naming system of the universe is beyond your comprehension."_

Even Death had a system. Harry acquiesced the point using silence as a reply, and the presence of his friend soon faded to a distant murmur. Death didn't take breaks—their job was endless; there was an infinite amount of souls to ferry and but only infinite power to ferry them with. Or at least, that was what he was told, but there were some things that Harry as a mortal would not understand. An eternal being as Death was on an entirely different level, even if they existed within the same scope.

English, then. It had taken awhile for him to learn enough languages where he would be able to get by from the get-go—and that wasn't accounting dialects yet; 'getting by' was closer to 'yes, no, thank you' than anything. 10th century English was vastly different from 20th century English, and 30th century English was another beast, never mind whether it was across the pond or on a different planet.

He was currently on a 5-life streak, according to Death. Harry wasn't one to keep track of these things, but Death's only entertainment was Harry—ergo, he had an extra set of eyes for the trivialities.

Very well; first things first—gather information. And what better way to gather information than to live? Children lived to learn, Harry mused with a rather sardonic grin.

* * *

The world was divided into two realms—the _jianghu_ , and the _yamen_. _Jianghu_ was a distinctly Chinese term inherited like any other French or German word that lacked a smooth translation; _yamen_ , as its effective opposite, was also used in the same context.

The _jianghu_ took up more physical land due to its nature. The _yamen_ , with technological advances, could house a higher number of residents and facilities—it was the 'modern' world, the world where the people's power lied in science and digitalization, computers and their components.

 _Yamen_ meant something along the lines of government office or administration, which was accurate enough. Simply, the _yamen_ had governments and bureaucratic hierarchy. The _jianghu_ did not.

Tom Riddle was born in the _yamen_ , but he had the capability to live in the _jianghu_. It had been his one true desire as a child—it was a place that, in summary, one could live by one's own power. Those who were strong flourished at the top, and those who were weak survived at the bottom.

Vast lands stretched the visual scope of the sky, tall mountains stood as obstacles, homes, and places to train. Rivers ran clean and unobstructed; those who fought, fought for their own reasons and purposes. The _jianghu_ was the home of martial artists, those who had the capability to cultivate their martial power and ascend from their human restrictions. They were the peak of humanity—power equal to any weapon those in the _yamen_ could create.

Well, not _all_ of them. Just like how a bullet was stronger than an arrow, a bomb stronger than a hand grenade, not all martial artists were born equal and not all martial artists could climb to the peak of power. Usually, those born in the _jianghu_ had the natural advantage, but Tom was an exception. Born to powerless parents in the _yamen_ , he had an abnormal talent, and soon had the strength to dominate much of the _jianghu_.

So Tom Riddle grew up into Voldemort, the leader of the Dark Sect known as the Death Eaters. They were infamously known for straying from the 'pure' path of cultivation, using dark and immoral means to obtain their power. And, while that may be true for most of the normal Death Eaters, those at the top—Voldemort and his Inner Circle—knew differently. They were the only masters who comprehended the true path of darkness.

An alliance of several sects was made to combat the Death Eaters. They were known as the Order of the Phoenix, lead by Grand Master Albus Dumbledore. Through some mysterious and murky means, Voldemort perished, and without his leadership the Order was able to suppress the Death Eaters. They were not entirely gone—as a Dark Sect, they were experts at survival in the shadows—but suppressed enough that the alliance disbanded, claiming the evil had been vanquished from the land.

With the end to the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore also passed down his Heavenly Phoenix Sect to a successor and instead became the Headmaster of Hogwarts, a neutral school of cultivation for aspiring martial artists. Several Grand Masters also lived and taught here, so naturally all new martial artists desired to become students in hopes of becoming their disciples.

The acceptance rate was terrible, because Hogwarts only accepted those with a high potential in martial arts and a strong soul realm. These two things were not mutually exclusive, but the chances of meeting the requirements as an examinee were not more than one in a hundred thousand, if not less.

And now the annual examination was taking place. Before they could even be applicants, aspiring martial artists had to either be recommended or prove their capability through a series of tests, the main goal of which was to find the exam location. It took place at a different location every year, and in the vast lands of the _jianghu_ , a simple guess was not going to cut it.

There were usually at least two or three Grand Masters hidden, but present during the examination week. If there was a particularly brilliant student, rumor has it that they would be personally invited by a Grand Master to become their disciple. That wish existed in the hearts of all the applicants—to meet a Grand Master! To learn powerful cultivation techniques! Not one disciple of a Grand Master had ever failed in becoming well known.

Unknown to many, but this year, the Headmaster of Hogwarts had come to watch. It could be said that he was expecting someone…so much so that he would bear the presence of Grand Master Riddle, another instructor of the school.

Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore were notoriously on bad terms with each other. Rarely were they ever in the same room at the same time despite the fact that they were colleagues. Not even dinner at the Grand Hall could bring them together. That they both appeared now to watch the examinations was practically unheard of, and would remain unheard of outside the knowledge of the other Grand Masters.

Actually, Tom didn't know today was supposed to be any different than the other examinations. He had decided to come this year because he had not gone the several years before, and finding god-like potential in a new disciple was the goal of every expert in the _jianghu_. It was Dumbledore that, upon hearing Tom was going, had gone despite the fact.

Neither had ever fought the other, but that was to keep any power gap hidden. The best weapon a martial artist could have was secrecy—in the direst times, a secret skill unknown to their opponent could save their life. They were trapped then in a perpetual cold war; Hogwarts being neutral was the only thing that stopped the school from becoming a battleground.

Minerva McGonagall was not a Grand Master, but she was an expert of the highest degree. She was also one of Dumbledore's disciples and for the week, held the title of Head Examiner.

Another professor administered the tests.

"Orange soul realm, excellent potential," declared the examiner. It was a rather good result—any other school would definitely take that student—but it did not meet Hogwarts' standards.

Soul realms were separated into colors, visualizations of power. In truth, soul realms did not have color but the crystals which soul energy was injected into reflected different shades. The testing process for soul realm strength was thus one, the basic ability to control soul energy, and two, the color reflected by the crystal.

The first part was easier. Any person who stepped foot into the _jianghu_ had to have that capability, or it was as good as a death sentence. That was why the _yamen_ and the _jianghu_ were vastly conflicting landscapes—where one had skyscrapers and cars, the other had dirt roads and largely kept to nature.

The second part was based on a person's natural talent. Most people moved up only one color through cultivation after years of training. Thus, it could be said that some were born to be powerful martial artists, and some were not. Of course it was impossible to get anywhere without cultivation and dedicated hard work, but one's soul realm could either be a big obstacle or a tall booster seat.

The color of soul realms were as such: red was weak, orange was average, yellow was above average, cyan was strong, blue was one-in-a-million strength, and purple was one-in-a-billion strength. To be accepted into Hogwarts, at least yellow color was necessary.

Strength of a soul realm roughly equated to capacity. The amount of soul energy a realm could contain, and thus the 'ceiling of strength' a person had was entirely dependent on this capacity. A Grand Master would need to end up with a purple soul realm, but the path to get that soul realm was easier from cyan to purple, rather than orange to purple.

On the other hand, potential was the speed at which the soul realm grew. The rates were as such: poor, ordinary, good, excellent, extraordinary, and god level. One's potential never changed through cultivation—it could only be changed through rare medicines and secret rituals. Hogwarts required at least an excellent potential for admittance.

The _jianghu_ could be a merciless place. Students at Hogwarts were granted safety for the duration of their studies, which gave them enough time to fully make use of their potential. However, in order to keep Hogwarts' resources exclusively to those who could make use of it, excellent potential was required to guarantee timely progress.

A soul realm's color was a marker. Potential was the true roll of the die.

"Next!" the examiner shouted. "Hermione Granger!"

A young girl stepped up. Her parents nervously watched from the side—they were from the _yamen,_ but had been escorted here by a distant relative from the _jianghu_ who had heard of their daughter's capability. The worlds were separate, but at some points they crossed. If Hermione could become a powerful martial artist, she would be well respected in both worlds and live comfortably for the rest of her life if she wished.

"Cyan soul realm, excellent potential. You pass. Go meet Head Examiner McGonagall."

The examinations continued.

"Ron Weasley! A _Weasley_. Your brothers are a lot of trouble, you know? Now, let's see…yellow soul realm, extraordinary potential. Hmph, guess you pass. Your brothers had blue soul realms! Wonder if the energy was diluted by the time you were born," the examiner muttered.

Ron wrinkled his nose and shot the man a dirty look, but a tap on his head by his mother reprimanded him.

Most people who passed had excellent potential. Around a quarter had extraordinary. There were none who had god level, which was to be expected. The number of alumni of Hogwarts who had god level amounted to less than a hundred, and Hogwarts had existed for at least four thousand years.

More names were called, and some passed, the majority didn't. The number of students Hogwarts accepted per year averaged three hundred, and the number of applicants that came during the week was around _a hundred times_ that.

On the very last day of examinations came the person Albus was waiting for.

"Harry Potter!"

A boy no older than eleven stepped forward. He placed his hand on the crystal, and instantly it filled with a deep, rich color. Most took at least thirty seconds to completely fill it, but Harry took less than five seconds. It was because of this oddity that the examiner gave his special attention even before the color settled.

"Is…is this…"

Harry glanced up at him as the crystal was taken out of his hands. There was no curiosity in his eyes, only confidence. His crystal had filled like a vat of water had been poured into a cup, and the color was so rich that it mirrored a generous glass of brandy.

As it flowed inside the crystal, its viscosity was unlike any the examiner had ever seen before—thick like the finest honey, glistening like fresh oil.

"Purple soul realm," the examiner breathed in disbelief. Harry coughed politely to bring his attention back to the test at hand.

"Ah, yes, very good, now let's see, the potential is…"

At his word, Harry released his soul energy into the air to reveal his aura. It was quite similar to using magic as a sensor, and had been the first thing he'd learned since coming to this world.

Naturally, with a purple soul realm the examiner expected a very high potential! But what he saw was not so. Actually, he didn't even know what he was seeing. Harry's aura was an erratic gossamer cloth, one second bright and almost tangible, the next thin like a spider web. He did not know what to call it, but as it was unstable and instability was a mark of bad potential, he said, "Potential is…poor."

What a waste! What a shame. Purple soul realm, one-in-a-billion chance, and yet this kid had poor potential? God must really hate him was what the examiner thought. Maybe he had bad karma and was carrying the curses of his past life. Absolutely horrible, like finding an unopened CD in the trash, only to find the disc was so scratched it was unusable!

"I'm sorry," the examiner said, genuinely apologetic and pitying unlike his other dismissals, "You failed."

"Did he really?"

The examiner started. Out of thin air, Grand Master Riddle stepped forward. The crowd instantly gave him a wide berth in respect, and the examiner actually got down on his knees to prostrate.

"G-Grand—"

"I'll take him," Tom said. "Be my disciple, boy."

Not giving an option, not even having the courtesy to phrase it as a question…Grand Master Riddle was definitely different from the other experts at Hogwarts. Because they would soon have a master-disciple relationship, experts usually addressed their desired student kindly, but Riddle didn't seem to care.

Harry, though, smiled. "My name is Harry," he said. "Who might you be?"

Several people watching choked on their spit. One person in the crowd even fainted.

"I am your master," Tom claimed.

"Does my master have a name?"

Tom leveled a condescending gaze at him, but Harry remained unperturbed. "I should like to know what to call you, sir," he added.

Before Tom could answer, Albus made himself known as well.

"Now now, don't be so rude, my boy," he said, addressing Tom. "You'll frighten him."

Tom sneered. The boy hadn't fallen to his knees under the weight of his aura, so it was unlikely anything short of death would scare him. The irony of that thought was completely lost to the one who thought it.

Turning to Harry, Albus said, "My name is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Would you like to attend this school? Though you did not pass the examination, I would be willing to take you on as my disciple."

Whispers broke out among the crowd, but with a sharp look from the present examiners, they silenced. No one wanted to be eliminated before they even tested.

Harry appeared to think it over. His eyes seemed to stare off into the distance, passing through both Grand Masters into some other dimension. No, perhaps his gaze turned inward instead to look at something inside his soul…?

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," he said after a moment, addressing Albus. "But I already have a master."

Brimming with curiosity, Albus asked, "Oh? And who might that be, my boy?"

Harry raised his hand and pointed to Tom with all the innocence an eleven-year-old boy had, who didn't know pointing was rude or had yet to grow out of the habit. "I don't know his name, so I can't tell you, but he said he was my master right before you came. I'm really sorry; you just missed it!"

It was so quiet _dust_ could be heard floating through the air.

Then, Tom smirked. "You heard the boy," he said, eyes alight with vicious burning. "Come, brat."

"It's Harry," Harry said, but he still walked forward and followed right behind Tom like a little duckling, all the way to McGonagall.

"He is mine," Tom told her. "He'll be sorted into Slytherin. Have the Hat finalize it."

What could she do in the face of a Grand Master but acquiesce? Even though she was Albus' disciple, she was also a professor at the school. Minerva hid a glance of disappointment as she placed the tall Sorting Hat on Harry's head.

It squinted and squirmed, frowned and opened its mouth wide before closing it. The Sorting Hat _should've_ bellowed "BETTER BE SLYTHERIN!" without a second thought just as Tom demanded, but it didn't.

Tom frowned at this display of disobedience. " _Hat_ ," he threatened.

Harry's mischievous expression was hidden behind the Sorting Hat's large brim.

"… _Slytherin_ ," it finally forced out of its mouth. The reluctance was nearly palpable, like unwanted vomit had welled in its non-existent throat and had came out as slow and heavy sludge.

" _There_ , Tom, I did it!" the Hat spat. "You have your way, just like you always do. Yes sir, sorting students—it's definitely no business of the _Sorting Hat_!"

"So his name is Tom," Harry exclaimed, still wearing the Hat. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Agh!" the Sorting Hat groaned. "No one can just take what's good for them, can they? Another year, another Sorting gone wrong! But what do I know? _I'm_ just a ratty old hat, and of course an all-powerful Grand Master would know better…regardless of the fact that I was made by four of them!"

Minerva snatched back the Hat before it could say more and incur an expert's wrath. Tom seemed to pay it no mind, instead pushing Harry toward the gates where the other accepted students went.

"Go through there. You're a student now."

Harry, for what its worth, obeyed—though not before bowing and saying, "Thanks, Master Tom."

It did its job. Tom twitched, scowling like all of his good mood had been sucked out by a straw. " _Just._ _Master_. Brat."

Harry had nearly reached the gates. He turned around, bowing again, and then right before Tom finished his disappearing act, said, "It's Harry, Master Tom!"

Tom really should've listened to what the Sorting Hat had to say.

* * *

 **I'll be porting this over from Ao3, since this fic actually seems to be going somewhere.**

 **Hope you all will enjoy this!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **R.R.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** Slow build, very eventual romance, wuxia/xianxia AU, Master-of-Death!Harry

 **Pairing** : eventual LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter), eventual TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

 **Summary:** In a world where magic doesn't exist, supernatural power goes by another name. Hogwarts is not a school of witchcraft and wizardry but of cultivation, and new student Harry Potter has been scouted by the venerable Grand Master Riddle for his mysterious potential in martial arts.

Little does he know, the 'power the Dark Lord knows not' takes on a different meaning.

 **Disclaimer** **:** Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling

This fic was inspired by Chinese web-novels _Tales of Demons and Gods_ by Mad Snail, and _Coiling Dragon_ by I Eat Tomatoes. You can read their translations on wuxiaworld(-dot-)com!

 **Additional Notes:** This work will contain the occasional Chinese term, which I will explain in the text. If you have any questions about these terms or the AU in general, feel free to PM me/leave a review with your question and I'll get back to you about it to the best of my ability.

* * *

In Harry's opinion, the color of his soul realm wasn't surprising in the least. Dying was apparently an excellent way to strengthen the soul (who knew?), and so he was called a genius; it was really more like an unfair advantage gained from being the Master of Death.

His potential was a lot more interesting, but Death was keeping mum on the subject so it was his own responsibility to find out that. Harry didn't mind. Life wasn't interesting when one held all the answers.

Though, seeing Tom Riddle again was bloody fantastic.

Voldemort was always a bit of a sore spot for him. On one hand, the Dark Lord was the root of most of his bad memories from his first life. On the other hand, he wouldn't be who he was today if not for that experience, no matter how unsavory it was. It was genuinely surprising to find him in this universe so close to Dumbledore, and even more so that he actually looked like Tom.

It was weird. Harry had seen some strange things in his past lives, but somehow a normal Tom Riddle took one of the top places.

In the _jianghu_ , it was common knowledge that those who ascended to Grand Master became immortal. They could die, but not of natural causes—most died in battle, or ambushed by enemy sects. However, it was also common knowledge to keep this information away from the _yamen_ , so normal humans only thought martial artists had lengthened life spans.

In a world where Tom Riddle never had to make horcruxes, but obtained immortality through (apparently legitimate) means…how strange. It almost made him want to laugh. He had gone through so much trouble, so much suffering in his first life because of Tom Riddle's stupid quest for immortality, and yet in this world, he had it not through dark magic but by pure cultivation…even before Harry was born.

Death sure knew how to give him a good time, he supposed.

Harry's flight from the _yamen_ had been by his own power. First had come his discovery of the two separate lands, then had come his planning to go there. The Knight Bus did not exist in this world, nor did magic to ease the burden of travel. He'd managed to get to the _jianghu_ in time out of a combo of luck and perseverance.

Then there was the whole test thing to get to the exam grounds…well, no. Through a series of events, Harry followed the tugging of his soul (which had begun when he first stepped into the _jianghu_ ) straight there. On the way he'd trained up a bit, but nothing more than normal strength, stamina, and meditation practice.

He still didn't know anything about this world. And in fact, Harry was content with finding out slowly along with the rest of his age group. There didn't seem to be any immediate threat, surprisingly enough—he wasn't a horcrux, didn't have a scar; his parents were dead, but he figured if they were from the _jianghu_ it might've been Voldemort again in a clash of sects. That was probably his first real objective—find out what happened to his parents.

Maybe he might take revenge. Maybe not. It depended on the situation—were the villains still active? If they had long retired, Harry would leave them be. Life was too vast to focus on one pebble in the pond. He would not want his own child to seek revenge for him if it consumed their lives; life was meant to be experienced like eating a meal—slowly, at one's own pace, savoring flavors and discovering new tastes.

…Did he mention seeing Tom again was bloody fantastic? Because it was. It really was. He was just so _easy_ —maybe it was because he was still Harry Potter, and Harry Potter was always meant to rub Tom Riddle all the wrong ways. Death had not said much at his appearance, just that he wasn't hunting the fool and Harry should do what he wished. So, he did.

A part of him wanted to go to Dumbledore, too. He still had a soft spot for the old man, it seemed. They could have the most interesting conversations over tea and lemon drops—did he eat lemon drops in this life? He probably did. It wasn't Dumbledore without his lemon drops—and the man had quite the trickster's spirit to him, too. If he wanted to stir up a bit of trouble, the first place he would think of would be Dumbledore's cauldron. The headmaster _had_ to be cooking something up in there.

Merlin—did they have a Merlin here? There was no magic, technically, so it must not be Merlin. The muggle Christian God, then? Islamic Allah? Who did he send his half-hearted prayers to, or swear in the name of? It was these small nuances of language that always tripped him up in the beginning. Well, if he slipped, he could probably BS his way through an excuse. The bigger he spun a web, the less chance they would focus on any one spot.

Unless it was Tom. But Tom was, in his head, another existence entirely—and he was his disciple now, wasn't he? Merlin, _that_ was weird. It would take a bit to get the hang of, certainly.

Hermione, bless her heart, had passed. So had Ron, though apparently Fred and George attended as well. What was their economic situation in the _jianghu_? Status? Were they having a rough time, moderately okay, or luxurious with money to spare? The Weasleys had a soft spot in Harry's heart, too.

Speaking of finances, Hogwarts was an incredibly expensive institution. The _jianghu_ had a separate currency to the _yamen_ ; the latter used paper money and credit while the _jianghu_ used coins, much like the Wizarding World had. They weren't quite the galleons and sickles and knuts he remembered—conversion rates being inefficient, which the _jianghu_ was not. Ten knuts to a sickle, ten sickles to a galleon.

(The coins were called other names in other lands, but at least for Britain's section of _jianghu_ they were galleons, sickles, and knuts.)

It put Harry in somewhat of a dilemma though. He hadn't really thought about finances on his trip over (well, he had, but that was for food and water and shelter rather than _tuition_ ), but Hogwarts wasn't free, and he didn't have any money. There must be some sort of credit system in place, because the investment would be worth it for high potential students, but he hadn't heard anything about it.

Then again, did it even apply to him? He was here not by passing the entrance exam, but by becoming Tom's disciple. With all the looks he'd been getting, he assumed that didn't happen very often…if at all.

What to do…

Bah, no point worrying about it now.

A transportation portal—thankfully smoother than floo, but Harry still preferred other methods of travel—teleported the students straight to Hogwarts. They were briefed about the four houses, each headed by a different expert. Severus Snape was head of Slytherin, Filius Flitwick was head of Ravenclaw, Pomona Sprout was head of Hufflepuff, and of course, Minerva McGonagall was head of Gryffindor.

None of them were Grand Masters, though they were all a step below it in terms of martial expertise and could take their own disciples.

There were four Grand Masters that counted as long-term residents of Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle, Nicolas Flamel (and his wife, but she wasn't a Grand Master), and Phineas Nigellus Black. Also associated but not living on grounds was Garrick Ollivander.

They weren't told much more. That was the job of their classes. From loose tongues, Harry figured out that each house was backed by a different sect, or alliance of sects. For example, Gryffindor was backed and sponsored by Dumbledore's Heavenly Phoenix Sect. The graduates from the respective houses could find easy slots in that sect if they gave good impressions. Thus, even though Hogwarts was a neutral institution, its existence supported the bigger sects of the _jianghu_ to remain in power through guaranteed powerful graduates.

Hermione had ended up in Ravenclaw. Ron was housed in Gryffindor.

Fortunately, in order to build good ties between the different sects, house unity was promoted (though questionable, at times). Thus, housing was not in separate areas, but combined and split by gender. The dormitories were placed in smaller castles still on Hogwarts grounds. It seemed with the lack of genuine magic, some things could not be done, even with the powerful skills of the _jianghu_. The magical expansion of a physical room was one of them.

Harry had been assigned a room number and given a room key. Even though he came as Tom's disciple, he was no different from any other student it seemed—which was he perfectly fine with. The Dark Lord from his first life had been terribly controlling, and this time, Harry couldn't use the excuse of being his mortal enemy to escape.

"Room 934…" Harry smiled. "Found it."

* * *

He wasn't good with kids.

Tom breathed a sigh, nursing a cup of tea in his hands as he had retreated back to his rooms. All of his previous disciples had been at least eighteen, Bellatrix being the youngest and hitting that age right on the dot. The point was, they could take care of themselves (somewhat) by the time he had started training them.

Harry Potter was eleven. Harry Potter was a cheeky eleven-year-old brat, but Tom knew the second he laid eyes on him that he had to have him.

It wasn't the purple soul realm. He knew just how insignificant soul realm colors were; there were countless means to upgrade colors if one had the money and knowledge.

It was _partly_ the potential. The examiner might've called it poor, but he (and Albus, most likely) knew what it had _really_ been.

Someone was hiding the boy's potential. There was a barrier blocking it from being fully discerned, but there was more than one way of telling potential. Just from looking at a person use their soul energy, Tom could get a rough estimate and what he saw was definitely not _poor_.

There was another reason he had to have Harry Potter. And that was because his very soul had howled at the sight of the boy—a wolf's howl, back arched and muzzle pointed to the moon. Such a strong reaction of his soul was unnatural; did he fear him, did he want him, was it a cry of pain or an exclamation of jubilance? Tom did not know.

It was not a reaction shared by anyone else, he was sure. Their connection was something primal and Tom was not one to ignore such raw power. He didn't know why, but he would find out—Harry Potter would be worth the investment. He was small and unassuming, just a little boy born with an abnormally large soul, but there was potential there beyond his hidden growth rate. Tom was reminded of himself when _he_ had first stepped foot in the _jianghu_.

Well, first he would watch. How much exactly he should put into the boy was a mystery. Bellatrix, for one, had taken to a path of cultivation like a duck to water, but not everyone was the same. Besides, Tom had yet to determine which technique suited the boy best.

* * *

"I'm Neville—Longbottom. Uh, Hufflepuff. Yellow soul realm, excellent potential."

"I'm Ron Weasley, Gryffindor House. Yellow soul realm, extraordinary potential."

Harry smiled. "Harry Potter, nice to meet you. I'm in Slytherin. Purple soul realm, poor potential."

All three of them turned to the last member of room 934. The boy scoffed, eyes in a derisive squint as he glanced between Neville and Ron. Yellow soul trash. They weren't worth his time. Harry, though, he seemed wary of—it was the poor potential that threw him for a loop. But he was Grand Master Riddle's disciple, so there must be merit to knowing him after all…

And Harry _was_ his house mate. The emblem on his outer robe said as much.

"Draco Malfoy," he finally announced. "Slytherin. Blue soul realm, extraordinary potential. I don't consort with _yellows_."

Ron stepped forward like he was going to punch him. For what it was worth, Draco stood his ground and glared back.

"Once my father hears about this, he'll have my dorm mates changed to colors actually worth something. Don't bother unpacking your bags, _Weasley_." Draco's attention slid to the side. "You can stay, Harry. Your master and my father are close associates, so it'll be good if we get along."

"Now you _listen here_ , Malfoy—"

Harry stepped between them before any punches could be thrown. He doubted they would have any soul energy in them (and thus wouldn't cause serious injury), but a punch was a punch and none of them were martial artists. Hogwarts forbid unregulated skirmishes among students, and indeed most of the grounds were non-fighting areas.

"We'll be living together for a long time," he said, smile fixed on his face. "So let's all get along, okay?"

Draco frowned. Ultimately, he decided Harry's poor potential set him below him, because the next thing he said was, "Didn't you hear what I said? _My father will_ —"

"No one cares about your _bloody_ father!" Ron shouted. "Aren't you ashamed? Can't stand on your own two feet without _daddy dearest_ to hold your hand?"

"At least I _have_ a father that pays attention to me. That's what you get for overbreeding like a family of rabbits!"

"Some of us," Harry began, "don't have parents at all."

Both Draco and Ron flinched back. The absence of a parental figure next to an eleven-year-old boy had made its way around—especially because he had a purple soul realm. They opened their mouths to apologize, but Harry shook his head.

"I wasn't talking about me," he said softly. Neville sniffed, and only then did the other two boys reel back as if they'd done some heinous crime. To Draco, even if the boy was 'yellow trash'—and to Ron, even if he wasn't his friend quite yet—he'd just been terribly rude. Children could be mean, but they didn't yet have the mind for true malice.

"It's—it's alright," Neville muttered. "They—my grandmother takes care of me, so…"

The late Longbottoms were killed a couple years ago. It was still recent enough to be talked about, and because their only child had been in attendance at the examinations, the topic had popped up again. When he had been trying to squeeze through the crowd to get to the proper examination platform, there had been a lot of talk, and Harry had listened.

But Neville honestly looked like he was about to burst into tears, and Ron who was the youngest son didn't know how to deal with that. His sister had always run to his mother or Bill or Charlie or Percy, not _him_. Draco was an only child; who would run to him in tears?

Harry moved away from the two previously fighting. He pulled Neville forward, a head taller than he was, to lean on his frame as he rubbed soothing circles on his back. The boy hesitated only a moment before he pulled him into a tentative hug—of which there had been desperately few of since his parents had passed. Harry, well—Harry knew the feeling.

"S-Sorry—" Neville choked. "I just…"

"The one apologizing shouldn't be you," Draco, of all people, said. He shuffled his feet before stepping forward and giving a quick bow. "That was rude of me. It…was a poor representation of the Malfoy family. I apologize."

Ron also said his apologies, though he wasn't so formal with his.

"We'll be living with each other from now on," Harry's remark doubled as a reprimand, "So we should all get along. I'd like to get to know you all, if that's alright."

Both Ron and Neville nodded in agreement. Draco's assent came after a moment of hesitation—he didn't mention switching rooms again.

Harry felt a bit proud of them. "You're all from the _jianghu_ , right? I just came here a month ago. What's with the weird animals? That lion had _wings_! And were those white peacocks out there? Did you see that plant? It _ate a bird_!"

Children were easy to distract.

* * *

Classes were divided into houses, so when the time for their first classes came, Harry left with Draco.

"Don't worry, I'll introduce you," Draco said, puffing out his chest. "You haven't met any of the other Slytherins yet, have you? There are many from families living in the _jianghu_ , so you can't let them bully you! As they say, 'if the camel once gets his nose in the tent, his body will soon follow.' You're Grand Master Riddle's disciple, so a poor showing would reflect badly on him! But they won't get away so easily either if they think they can step on you…"

Harry hummed. Knowing what he did about Tom, it was unlikely the man would come to his aid so early on. He might be his disciple now, but that was a flimsy title at the moment. To throw around the man's name at this stage would be a mistake—he would have to survive the snake pit with his own power. Well, he also wasn't too bothered by them; these snakes were too small to have much venom. A bite wouldn't kill him.

At least, Draco seemed to take it as his duty to teach him. After he realized Harry knew just about nothing of the _jianghu_ , he had been both appalled and determined to rectify the problem. What he did, he thought as a representation of his father, and thus he wanted to mirror the good relationship between his father and Grand Master Riddle with Harry.

It was kind of cute, actually. Draco idolized his father; even if it sometimes came out the wrong way, his love of his parent was true and returned to him. Harry thought upon his own life here and felt a bit bittersweet. Was there a prophecy? What happened to Lily and James this time that he was left with the Dursleys?

"Blaise is quiet, but he's clever. The Zabini family is mysterious—apparently the matriarch has gone through several husbands who all died of unknown causes. Don't get on their bad side…but Blaise is mild mannered so it would be difficult to, I suppose. The Nott family is a little inferior to the Malfoys—their son Theo is our age. He's a bit more distant to his peers than Blaise, but I grew up with him so he'll like you if _I_ like you. And then there's Pansy…"

"Draco!"

"Speaking of her…" the boy muttered, "Good morning, Pansy."

The girl who came running up to them was only slightly taller than Harry. She flipped her thin hair over her shoulder with a flick of the wrist. "I heard you got put in a room with _yellows_ , ugh. Oh? Who's this?"

" _This_ ," Draco declared, "is one of my roommates, Harry Potter."

"The purple soul realm boy?"

"Nice to meet you," Harry said.

"Hm." Pansy pursed her lips. Like most of the other students, she didn't know what to make of him. On one hand, a purple soul realm was a one-in-a-billion winning lottery ticket, but on the other hand, he had poor potential. At the same time, a Grand Master had recruited him, and the headmaster himself had come forth…

It was misleading. The importance of the soul realm's color was less than the importance of a person's potential. However, Harry's potential was being hidden—not an easy thing to realize unless one was an expert. Everyone else could only follow what the examiner had said: poor potential!

"A friend of Draco is a friend of mine," Pansy finally said. "We're _engaged_ , you know. As his future wife, of course I'll follow my future husband!"

Draco groaned. "Pansy…"

Conversation flowed. Harry was introduced to Blaise and Theo before the beginning of class. Right before the instructor walked in, another Slytherin he recognized arrived. Pansy enthusiastically greeted her.

"That's Daphne Greengrass," Draco explained under his breath. "She's the prodigy of our age group—blue soul realm and god-level potential!"

That was surprising. Harry blinked, but didn't speak as he allowed his roommate to continue.

"There were rumors that she was born with a cyan soul realm. The Greengrasses are rather well off though, so it was a simple matter to get enough herb grasses to change it to blue. With god-level potential, why would it be hard? They still bought more—in hopes of getting it to purple no doubt—but soul realms aren't _that_ easy; especially if she hasn't started practicing a cultivation technique yet, it'd be practically impossible."

Just as he finished, Daphne turned to fix him with a withering glare. Draco stiffened beside him, but Harry knew it was meant for him with the way her eyes sought him out. This was his first time meeting her—hadn't even heard her name before this—so why she saw him as her mortal enemy was beyond him.

Or maybe it wasn't. If she tried to get to purple soul realm but failed, then his existence here must've mocked her at every turn. People—humans—could be petty like that. Harry had his own fair share of embarrassing faults and fallacies. He wasn't above mistakes, even if he'd lived for quite some time.

Harry tilted his head. When her gaze didn't shake, he smiled and waved.

" _What are you doing?_ " hissed Draco.

"Being friendly," Harry said. "You don't make friends by glaring at people. That's _rude_."

She must've heard, because the next second, Daphne scoffed and threw one last ice pick glare before turning away and taking a seat. Pansy chose to abandon them and take a seat beside her. Harry didn't remember what their relationship was like in his past life, but he imagined it must've been good as well.

The Malfoy name was more prominent than the Greengrass', then. He remembered that much. Draco had been the top dog in the snake cave…but in a world where martial skill outclassed blood, it seemed to be Daphne's turn.

Well while it was interesting, as long as Daphne didn't bother him, Harry didn't plan on bothering her. He'd rather make more friends than foes—it was the motto he usually lived by and it had served him well. Besides, they were all children, and this was their first class here at Hogwarts. No matter how prodigious one's natural talent appeared, it would mean nothing if hard work and dedication wasn't put in.

"In the _jianghu_ , there exists six elements: water, wind, earth, fire, light, and darkness. Each soul has their own tendencies—you will discover what element your soul favors through the course of your first year. These elements will decide what cultivation techniques you can learn—"

Light and darkness. He wondered which one was him—or was he some other element? There had been some worlds where elementals had existed, but those powers had never been tied to the soul. If it was possible to _not_ have an element, Harry thought that'd be more likely—what could boast to be the element of death? Death was dark. Death was light. All elements of the physical realm could cause death—tornadoes, tsunamis, forest fires, earthquakes…

"I expect that none of you have began cultivating a technique yet. Once you begin, you will be a 1st rank elementary practitioner. At 10th rank, you can break through to intermediary practitioner. At 10th rank intermediary, you can break through to advanced practitioner. At 10th rank advanced, you can break through into Master tier, which has five level rankings. The fifth level is Grand Master, such as our esteemed Headmaster Albus Dumbledore!"

Some of the students had started to take notes, their quills _scritch-scratch_ ing across the table top. At first, Harry found it odd that quills were used when the _jianghu_ was connected with the modern _yamen_ , but his dorm mates had explained that it was good practice for inscriptions.

Inscriptions were this world's version of runes. The ink that was used to write them on scrolls was special, so quills were the best option to interchange between the different inks. All families living in the _jianghu_ made their children learn how to write with quills in hopes that their children would become master inscriptionists. There was a large, high demand market for inscriptions, so anyone who was able to make their own or copy advanced level scrolls could live comfortably without a fuss.

A few children did not use quills and inkwells, which was how one could tell who was from the _yamen_.

Other students were simply listening to the instructor. This information he was giving was basic knowledge.

Now that he knew, Harry could track down how big of the gap there was between he and Tom. It didn't surprise him too much; Tom was older and had more time to train. But how long did it take to break through the levels? How much did it take to go from 1st to 2nd rank? He didn't know what the power curve was at all—though it must be different for everyone, since potential was a measure of potential growth rate.

And then there was this vague term, "cultivation technique." There was no real equivalence in terms of magic, he supposed—magic cores grew passively. Skill was nurtured through practice. Magic had a wider scope of power, something more generalized and less individual to each person. Martial power was categorized and built upon specialization; that was their foundation of power rather than _concentration_.

Well, at least that was what he'd hypothesized since arriving here. His contact with Death was a perpetual feather-light touch, and the entity never gave him information pertaining to the laws of the world. As long as his existence was in this plane, then he would be confined to their rules, and half the fun was in finding out what those were.

"Before we begin discovering your elements, you must first learn what they are. Of the physical elements, wind is the fastest, earth is the slowest. Fire is second, water is third. Though, light and dark both have the potential to out-speed wind at a high expert level. The likelihood of light and darkness being your main element is low—they are mysterious arts; Grand Master Dumbledore is the only known Grand Master with light as his dominant element. All of his disciples have _some_ talent with light as well—"

The elements balanced and opposed themselves. Wind matched earth, fire matched water, light matched dark. When one was slow it also proved the most violent—though the differences could be made up with skill and individual power. Summoning wild tornadoes instead of simple wind blades, a tsunami in place of a water whip, earthquakes instead of a barrage of rocks…things of that nature.

Harry did not have any materials to take notes with. The clothes he had now were the uniforms provided by the school. He was completely penniless, but unlike most people, the fact didn't bother him. He was well used to making something from nothing, even if he couldn't use magic in this world. Instead of paper, he pressed the words of the instructor into his skin through touch.

The information was both new and old. Things from one world could pass over to another, and so the nature of these elements were not entirely strange. It wasn't _what laws does this world have_ , it was _what laws does this world not have_? What could he _not_ do, rather than what he could.

When Draco noticed that his companion's attentive ears but bare hands, he shot a questioning look at him and made a motion with his quill. Harry smiled back, close-lipped and unbothered, before shrugging. The blonde had not noticed Harry's lack of a bag before, but now he did. Even those who hadn't been taking notes earlier did now as the instructor continued his explanation of the elements.

Harry was the only one who wasn't writing. Beneath the desk he scribbled small phrases and symbols onto his arm using a finger, but hidden by his position, no one saw—it looked as if he were merely listening, like one would do at an orchestral performance.

Of course, the instructor noticed. He shot him a dirty look, but Harry's serene expression was as constant as the planet's rotation. He knew, of course, what the man was probably thinking—arrogant purple soul realm, not taking notes simply because Grand Master Riddle had chosen him as his disciple! Even Daphne Greengrass was acting like a diligent student; compared to her, of course Harry looked like a no-good troublemaker!

Maybe once he might've balked at the glare, or even glared right back. But now there was simply no need—immune, he was so immune that chaos sprung up around him to compensate for the void of his presence. If he enjoyed it, well…even if he could've lied, Harry would've answer that question with silence instead.

Grand Masters rarely chose disciples, even if they came masked to each annual examination. Daphne Greengrass, with her god-level potential, was expected to draw attention—but the attention had gone to Harry instead, and the remaining Nicolas Flamel had not chosen her; he was too occupied with interrogating his old friend Albus!

If he knew, Harry would've supposed he _did_ indirectly steal something from her…but Harry was quite oblivious to it all, and uncaring on top of that. Daphne held onto her grudge like her world had frosted over into a never-ending winter. The expectations placed on her by her parents and relatives was a heavy burden she had felt she could hold—no, even lift and waltz across a ballroom with—but then Harry Potter had come along and given her a taste of failure before she even saw his face.

There was still a chance that she would catch the eye of an expert and be taken in as a disciple. It was quite a high chance, as well—but that she had not been chosen by a Grand Master made the other experts wary, and so they hesitated and decided to wait rather than pick her off the fruit tree now.

 _Master_ , Death whispered.

 _"Hm?"_

 _There may be some…complications in the future._

Harry blinked. _"But not now?"_ he asked within the shared privacy of his mind. It was rare that the being would give him prior warning to anything.

Death's reply came slow. _We are unsure._

 _"…Alright then. What will these 'complications' be?"_

 _This matter…_

 _"Can't say?"_

Death's presence did not leave, which was the only indication that the conversation was not yet over. Harry waited patiently, completely disregarding the lesson now.

 _There has been interference in the system_ , Death finally replied. _But there has been no evidence left behind. It disturbs us that something has managed to slip past our attention. Master, as you are still in the early stages of your rebirth, your astral body is vulnerable right now—please take care not to phase._

 _"I normally don't, anyway."_ Using his 'astral body'—the true form of the Master of Death, which carried all the abilities and skills from his previous lives—was cheating. Harry only ever phased into it if there was a job he needed to do. It was like summoning Death to come walk the mortal plane: simply not done.

 _No, Master, but you absolutely_ must not _now. If there is a matter, we would much prefer you break several universal rules by summoning us rather than phasing. We rather anger a god than risk your existence._

 _"…Got it. No phasing. Tell me if you find out what's wrong?"_

Death paused again. There was a longer gap of silence before they finally said, _Certainly._

* * *

 **FFnet's abhorrence of links is really frustrating sometimes...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** Slow build, very eventual romance, wuxia/xianxia AU, Master-of-Death!Harry

 **Pairing** : eventual LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter), eventual TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)

 **Summary:** In a world where magic doesn't exist, supernatural power goes by another name. Hogwarts is not a school of witchcraft and wizardry but of cultivation, and new student Harry Potter has been scouted by the venerable Grand Master Riddle for his mysterious potential in martial arts.

Little does he know, the 'power the Dark Lord knows not' takes on a different meaning.

 **Disclaimer** **:** Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling

This fic was inspired by Chinese web-novels _Tales of Demons and Gods_ by Mad Snail, and _Coiling Dragon_ by I Eat Tomatoes. You can read their translations on wuxiaworld(-dot-)com!

 **Additional Notes:** This work will contain the occasional Chinese term, which I will explain in the text. If you have any questions about these terms or the AU in general, feel free to PM me/leave a review with your question and I'll get back to you about it to the best of my ability.

* * *

Two years passed by.

Hogwarts was not exactly the same Hogwarts he knew, but the castle still had enough familiarities that Harry was comfortable. The more he learned about the world, the better he got—it was by this time, two years after he 'failed' the examinations, that Harry felt settled enough to take the next step.

Tom had not visited him once. He had not seen hide nor hair of the Grand Master—not that it really bothered him any; Harry kind of expected this—and by this time, most of the interest in him had faded. Harry Potter was, aside from his soul realm, completely ordinary and as implied by his potential, a poor student.

None of the professors ever liked him because he never took notes. His serene expression in the face of everyone else's struggles made him appear as if he didn't take his classes seriously. On top of that, not only did he not begin cultivating a technique yet—which left him off the rankings—but he also had not discovered his element yet. In terms of his age group, Harry was far behind. Purple soul realm? In the eyes of his fellow classmates, it didn't mean much!

There was a very small select group of people who still bothered to talk to him. It included his dorm mates—who, in the face of Harry's bullying, grew as thick as thieves to 'protect' him—as well as Hermione Granger, who found camaraderie with him as her zealousness alienated her from her peers. Harry's completely indifferent attitude served to balance her out in some respects; she found his company could be as relaxing as it could be frustrating.

Everyone thought Harry was a failure. "Dead Wall" they called him; "Dead Wall" Harry Potter, who couldn't do anything and never even tried to. How pitiful that Grand Master Riddle had a disciple like him. The only proof that Harry still had some sort of connection here was that he was still enrolled; otherwise, after spectacularly failing the examinations, why else could he be here?

Harry didn't care. He continued to attend his classes, smiled when he met eyes with someone, spoke when he was spoken to. If he knew about his nickname, he certainly didn't show it. Even Daphne found him so pitiful that she abandoned her grudge and walked right past; it had been a fluke. Everything about Harry Potter had been a fluke. She didn't need to be concerned about him anymore; he was so beneath her that her eyes slid by him like he was a rock—not worth her time, just part of the background.

"I'm telling you, mate, you're taking way too many classes!"

Ron groaned from his spot on the plush sofa. Harry laughed, walking in empty-handed as always. He was away from the dorm the most out of all of them just from the sheer amount of classes he had on his schedule.

"This is a school. There's no such thing as too many classes," he replied. "I'm sure Hermione would agree with me."

"The _difference_ is that _she_ takes notes," Ron pointed out. When Draco emerged from his room, the two casually bumped fists in greeting. "I've never seen you use a quill, never mind carry a bag."

"Bags are barbaric!" Draco sniffed haughtily.

"Not everyone can afford an interdimensional ring!"

"Hmph. I won't have my roommates lacking such basic necessities. If you needed one, why not say so?"

Harry laughed again as he watched their back and forth. Ron turned his head away and mumbled something under his breath, and Draco took that as his cue to grab a drink from the cooler.

"Welcome back, by the way," Draco continued, this time to Harry. He handed him a cold bottle of water. "What class was it today? Darkness?"

"Light," Harry corrected. Because he hadn't discovered his main element yet, he was expected to take all rudimentary elemental courses. They were basically hour-long lecture classes. Both Ron and Neville had groaned when they first found that out, but Harry, like usual, had only smiled. "We got out a bit early. I think I saw Neville out in the fields during his earth class."

Ron lit up. "When he's finished, let's all go to the Great Hall and get something to eat! I'm dying of hunger here!"

"You'd think you were a homeless beggar with how often you say that," drawled Draco.

"I'm growing and I have an appetite. Hermione says cultivating consumes calories, so it's only natural I eat more! Problem, Malfoy?"

"You'd consume calories if you actually bothered to cultivate. Still stuck at 1st rank?"

"Only along with _ninety percent of our age group_."

Draco smirked. "Hm. Better catch up then, weasel."

Harry shook his head at the two. Draco had just broken through to 2nd rank three days ago, and he took any opportunity to brag about it. No one _actually minded_ —they had even thrown a bit of a celebration when it happened—but seventy-two hours of bragging made one wonder how many more times he could bring it up.

"Home is nice," Harry said, plopping onto the sofa beside Ron. He stretched out much like a cat before curling in on himself again. Though the sofa was small, he was even smaller, and so there was enough space for another person at the other end.

"Shoes off!" Draco squawked. "Don't be a barbarian!"

Harry hummed. "Yes, mother," he said, and then compliantly stuck out his feet for Draco to pull off his shoes one by one. They were tossed haphazardly toward the door before the blonde Slytherin shoved his legs over to take a seat. This was the scene that Neville walked into—Ron sprawled out like a couch potato at one end, Draco sitting upright with his legs crossed one over the other at the other end, and little Harry curled in a ball laying down between them.

If he was any bigger, then his head would be in Ron's lap and his feet would be in Draco's, but he was just small enough to fit perfectly in the leftover space.

The first thing Neville said was, "I didn't know I adopted three cats."

" _Finally_! Your earth class takes an _eternity_! Let's go eat now—"

"You should've been born a pig, Weasley."

"Shove off, corn head!"

Harry yawned. "Let's go eat before Ron accidentally becomes a cannibal."

They were out the door in a minute.

* * *

On top of the elemental classes Harry was required to take, he also picked up a few others as was normal for a second year. Second year, the students were just discovering their cultivation paths and beginning on training their elements—it was good to test and see what else they might have talent or interest for.

It was, of course, mostly theory. Some fields were too dangerous for children to practice without some form of cultivation. That was also why a physical training class was required for all lower years. The body was as important as the soul when it came to martial power.

Harry picked up rudimentary inscriptions as well as agriculture, refining, simple magical beasts, art, and specialized histories. Basically, anything that he could get his hands on, he would take. Alchemy was unfortunately later (much like potion making, things could go wrong and fast), but he was planning on taking that, too. These classes weren't for grades or supplementary lessons or anything like that; it was purely for knowledge.

Hermione had at first wanted to follow his plan, but when she saw how ambitious it was if she wanted to keep up her grades, she controlled herself and only took half as much. She was a diligent note-taker and put aside time after class to review the notes she took. Harry, on the other hand, never took any notes (that they could see, anyway), which meant all he did was attend.

Of course, attendance wasn't anything to shirk at, either. The instructors may all think he was a no good troublemaker, but they had to admit that his attendance couldn't be faulted. Harry never missed a single class, be they special classes or basic lessons that all students were required to take. Sometimes he sat in the back, sometimes he sat in the middle, sometimes even in the front—but he was always there, no matter what.

Homework was another matter. Harry _never_ turned in homework. For every class he attended, every single paper and assignment was left untouched. At first, all the instructors were expecting him to fail and get kicked out of Hogwarts that way…until he took his first quiz. All quizzes, tests, and exams came back with a perfect score. They couldn't even catch him cheating, because he wasn't!

The result was Harry cruising by with at least an average grade in everything. They docked points on participation, classwork, _anything_ , but when his tests came back, it was clear to everyone that Harry was not going to get expelled for his grades.

"Harry!" Hermione saw him first. When she noticed the rest of the boys she waved them over, too.

Ron wasted no time in stuffing his face at the table.

"Did you understand the lesson today?" was the first thing Hermione asked. "For water. I understood the concept, but then when she gave us that assignment it didn't connect at _all_!"

Hermione's second element was water—though it was far below her primary element, wind. She didn't want to give up on it though, so she signed up for the rudimentary water class that Harry would be attending. After rudimentary came basic classes, which was a more hands-on experience aside from lectures. Only those who could use the element could attend basic courses.

That meant Harry attended none of them.

"You could ask _me_ ," Draco sniffed. He had dual primary elements water and darkness—certainly impressive enough to earn considering looks from Hogwarts' experts.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Promise you won't make any _yamen_ comments?"

"No promises."

"Then Harry it is," she declared. While they were all on friendly terms, some bonds were more fragile than others. Hermione and Draco tended to butt heads because of their different backgrounds, and though they could be cordial at lunch, it could all go to hell by the time dinner came around.

Harry shrugged. "Just do the assignment."

"But you _never_ do the assignments."

"So?"

"If you can understand without doing them, why can't I?"

 _Ah,_ Harry thought. A frustrated Hermione was a petulant one. "You probably could, but the assignment makes it easier. Think theory last, purpose first."

Draco made his way into the conversation again. "Is this the river watching assignment?"

"Yep."

Hermione still looked disgruntled. Neville casually bumped her shoulder and murmured, "It'll be like the wind blowing assignment—you liked that one, didn't you?"

"That was _easy_ ," Hermione said, nibbling on a piece of bread. "I understood that one before the instructor even explained it. But this time I don't get it _at all_!"

Neville tried again to comfort her. "It's not your primary element, so you shouldn't worry about it. Happens with everyone's secondaries. Er, well, not that I know, but that's what I heard…"

"Let's all have a picnic next to the river tomorrow," Harry offered. "We'll be moral support as you do your assignment."

" _Our_."

"Our," he agreed. "…But you know I'm not going to do it, right?"

" _Fine_."

* * *

Severus Snape didn't understand why Harry Potter _bothered_ him so much.

Well, no. In all honesty, he did. Completely. But the reasons didn't make sense, so he didn't like to think about them. Sensible things pleased him—the bubbling of a cauldron, the harmony of ingredients, the colors of potions and their scents wafting up to his nose. Those made sense. He could explain those, and everyone would agree with him because it was factual information. _Proven_ information. Things that had evidence past his own personal experiences.

But he couldn't prove Harry Potter's existence.

Severus was an expert of advanced 10th rank, close to his break through into Master tier. However, cultivation wasn't nearly so easy as it sounded, and the terror that quaked in his heart didn't help matters. He supposed it only served him right, some divine justice sent down to punish him for his misdeeds of the past.

Harry Potter. Harry _Potter_. He had Lily's eyes, James' face, and nothing else.

Well, that was also false, Severus supposed. When he first saw the boy, hadn't he been reminded of himself? Harry Potter was a sailor in a storm. Calm and deliberate, he navigated the world not with the curiosity of a child but with the consideration of an adult. Severus saw his own hands when he looked at the boy; callused from where he held the rough stirring stick, thin knife scars from where he had nicked himself in the past.

Harry Potter was the eye of the _jianghu_ hurricane, he was sure.

"Enter," Tom said at the first knock. Severus inwardly started—had he been expected? _Was this Albus' game, or Marvolo's?_ —but showed nothing as he obeyed and entered.

Seeing the man sitting there in an arm chair screwed rivets of emotions into his head. The pain he felt was not all of the heart; it was of the mind, because he knew this man and he was no longer allowed to. It was Hogwarts that kept him safe, Hogwarts that made him rash and foolhardy to instigate this meeting. He shouldn't be here.

"Master," Severus breathed. He bowed his head and lowered his eyes on instinct. These motions were ingrained into his very being—his lips moved out of habit, his neck bent like a thin branch that had been blown by the wind. It was natural to submit to this man.

But he was no longer allowed to.

Tom's gaze was not warm, unlike the boiling temperature of the room. Severus swallowed and knew it was no longer his place to call him by that title. He righted himself under that stare, looked forward and hid his fear. Was he welcome anymore by this god-like man? Would he be crucified where he stood for his impudence? Dumbledore could not protect him, not here in Grand Master Riddle's personal room.

"Severus," Tom finally acknowledged. "Old friend, are you feeling nostalgic?"

Severus did not reply.

"Come. Sit. Have some tea," Tom offered. But Severus knew him, or at least he did long ago, and so he knew it was more of a demand than whatever soft guise his once master masked it with.

The chair was soft and comfortable but it still felt like a million needles pierced his body when he sat down. It was like sitting on icicles in the caldera of a volcano, trapped not by tangible shackles but a paralyzing fear. In much the same way, the tea was perfectly bitter to his tastes but it went down like drinking poison. Severus had never been so tense in his entire life.

It was only when Tom said no more that he realized the man's attention was directed somewhere else.

Instead of calling attention to himself, Severus followed the man's gaze to a large frameless mirror. It reflected nothing; the images being shown was not of the room they sat in. A scrying window made from advanced water arts—naturally, Grand Master Riddle would have something like that. If he had talent in the water element then he would have made it, and if he didn't then he very well could've bought it like a trinket at a street stall.

Though, scrying windows were much more than _trinkets_. Especially one so large. Severus blinked and focused on what was being shown.

He recognized his godson, Draco Malfoy, first. And then he saw the children Draco associated with—Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, and…Harry Potter. Of course, of course. That was why he was here, wasn't he? Because so long as Harry Potter was kept as Grand Master Riddle's disciple, then he would be at Hogwarts to stay. If Harry Potter was at Hogwarts, Severus' night terrors would never vanish. He would be haunted, tormented for years on end—

Lily. James. Potter. _If only_.

"Will you expel him?" Severus asked.

He didn't know what type of answer he was expecting, but it was certainly not _laughter_. Tom leaned back his head and laughed long and hard, like a joke so horrid it was hysterical had been told.

"I thought of it once or twice," Tom said when his laughter ceased. "Hogwarts is not enough for him. Imagine what he could accomplish if he was locked away in my manor? Ah, but it is my affection for this place that stayed my hand. I wish he will grow to love it as much as I do."

… _Pardon me, but have you gone insane_ didn't slip past Severus' lips, but it was a close thing.

"Or did you mean to expel him as my disciple?"

The question was said with a honey-coated dagger. Severus swallowed and carefully avoided giving a direct answer.

Tom appeared amused. "Severus, my slippery friend, you haven't changed in the slightest. Tell me, are you here because Albus sent you?"

"…The Headmaster did not send me."

"Oh? So you haven't come with an ulterior motive? To wrestle this treasure from my hands and give it to your liege?"

Severus struggled. "I beg your pardon, Marvolo, but I don't follow."

"You refuse to say what is on your mind," Tom drawled. The tea in his cup stirred as the Grand Master considered it. "One of your less admirable traits, I suppose. Well, that _is_ how you won my favor, so perhaps I can't say."

 _It was also how I lost it_. Severus despaired before he spoke again. "Marvolo, are you saying that the boy is…"

"The winning lottery ticket," Tom confirmed. "Do you see him? Have you watched him? He's amazing, is he not? My little sapling, with enough patience to move mountains! And luck! It's as if the world is enamored with him and seeks to cater to his every whim. If it were not so baffling, I dare say even _I_ would be jealous." He chuckled again, and the sound echoed in Severus' mind like the _shink_ of a knife being sharpened.

He came here to inquire about the boy's fate. What he heard instead was his old master singing praise after praise of him! The world was too strange—no, _Harry Potter_ was too strange. Severus felt slightly nauseous.

"His instinct is razor sharp," Tom continued. "I don't even have to _do_ anything—he feels the world as if there's no difference between it and the clothes on his back. It's _absurd_. And he's either humbler than an ant or as oblivious as dust because he seems to have _no idea_ what he's doing! I would steal his blood if it were to work for me. Surely someone has injected a luck potion into his veins at one point or another…"

Tom sounded like he was _bragging_. Grand Master Riddle, _bragging_. The world was going to end; Severus just knew it.

Surely if Harry Potter caught his attention so completely, Tom would've done some research? At the very least, a background check? Severus took a breath and asked. "Do you know his origins?"

"From the _yamen_ ," Tom said in the same tone. "He ran away from home to get to the _jianghu_. I have my suspicions why…but you ask too much."

"No," Severus said quickly, "He is yours. Albus concedes the point, I'm sure—"

"Albus never concedes anything. You understand, don't you, Severus?"

He shuddered at the dark twist Tom's voice had taken. "I do. My interest is personal—the boy reminds me of…" _Lily. James. Potter, and yet not._

"It doesn't matter," Tom said.

"Even if the boy proves a threat to _yourself_ , Marvolo?"

For a second, Severus thought he hit something. He waits for the metaphorical pin to drop, but nothing comes. Once upon a time, maybe his master would've demanded he leave—given him extra drills, ordered his isolation for his insolence. His master had been quick to rile with an even quicker temper, flames fanning at the briefest spark. But Tom was not the same, Lord Voldemort was no more, and—

Tom laughed. "My sapling, a threat to me? So you've finally learned how to joke, old friend. If Harry Potter is a threat to me, then _I_ am a threat to myself. You simply wouldn't understand."

"The Greengrass girl," Severus hurried to change the subject, "Is she not a 'ticket' as well?"

"Oh, her." Tom finally took another sip of tea, and it looked like dismissal. "I suppose. Had she continued to antagonize my sapling, I wouldn't have cared—but it appears she's had a change of heart, so I suppose I should pick her up soon."

Severus blanched. The idea that Tom had anything near an _emotional attachment_ to the boy was too earthshaking to think about.

"You know I dislike dissension in my ranks," the Grand Master continued. "Albus will not take her because she has no talent in light. Flamel has gratuitously decided to keep out of our games—this round, at least. Black has not taken a disciple in _centuries_ , and Ollivander is haply absent. I _supposed_ I could take her—but then my sapling sprouted, and I didn't want to take chances that the flower was actually a weed."

"So—"

"Another expert could've taken her. I don't care. But my sapling has given them quite the scare so they all hang in the shadows, too scared to stake a claim. The ' _Everlasting Blizzard'_ technique is fairly potent; if I invest a few decades she could be a little inferior to Bellatrix."

"With her talent, I assumed it would be more…?"

"Talent isn't everything," Tom said. "Her potential is a bit of a crutch. The Greengrass family is too greedy—they eat with their eyes before their meal has even been cooked. That's why my sapling is a hundred times more interesting."

It all came back around to Harry Potter. Severus watched the moving image in the scrying window—they were on a picnic of some sort, just children being children. No matter how he stared or from what angle he approached, he couldn't see what was so amazing about the boy…but then his eyes landed on Draco. Draco, his spoiled little godson who was slowly growing up.

If it was from these eyes that Tom saw the boy, then Severus theorized he might understand.

"You're wrong."

"…I beg your pardon, Marvolo?"

Tom's lips curled into a smirk. "Don't be misled. Sapling he may be, but his future is a tree. Trees provide shade from the sun, wood for a fire, a home for animals that will seek him out. Trees are very useful things, and they don't need to love to be of use to be made use of. As long as he's able to grow without anyone cutting him down, I'll naturally profit by association. _That_ , Severus, is how rich of a resource he is."

* * *

Harry thought he felt something watching him.

It wasn't a particularly new feeling, but it usually only happened during class time. That his watcher had decided to spectate him outside of class gave him mixed feelings—he _thought_ he knew who it was, but in this world he was neither strong enough or knowledgeable enough to say for sure.

The only reason he knew something was watching him at all was because of his gut. Instinct told him something was watching him, but his senses—immature as they were—never caught a wisp of anything.

But it was disturbing. He didn't want to be watched all hours of the day; a respect for privacy would've been welcome. Well, it wasn't like he was doing anything illegal (yet), but it was the idea behind it that meant the most. That decided, Harry turned his head to where his gut told him he was being watched from—a random spot in the sky, empty of course—and pointedly waved his hand in greeting.

His friends noticed. Of course they did.

"…Harry? What are you doing?"

"Hmm? Oh, I thought I saw a little bird in the sky."

Bemused, they all tried to follow his line of sight but came up with nothing.

"…Mate, you're weird."

" _Hey_ , I happen to like birds, alright?"

"Cross your fingers to reveal as a wind element, then."

* * *

Severus almost spat out his tea.

Tom had a different reaction—he grinned, a smile full of teeth and double-edged satisfaction—before saying, "See? He makes anyone else pale in comparison!"

* * *

"Severus—did you just say Tom has not instructed him for the past two years?"

He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have gone to Grand Master Riddle's room either, but it was an even worse decision to come see Albus _right after_. True, he had been called, but he could've refused—said he had a headache, papers to grade, a potion cooking on the stove! _Something_. Anything.

Albus' previously calm demeanor had melted like a popsicle in a forge. Why was that so important, that Tom had not taken his disciple's education by the reigns? If anything, Severus thought Albus would be _pleased_ , but he wasn't, definitely wasn't. In fact, the old headmaster looked like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

"That was what he implied," he said. "But I do not think it was out of a lack of interest—" _the opposite, actually_ , "—he has been…observant."

"Interested."

"Like a cat at a mouse hole."

"I believe you," Albus said quietly. "Severus, my boy…"

In front of Grand Master Riddle, Severus was nothing. In front of Grand Master _Dumbledore_ , however, then he at least had the voice to speak the words he wouldn't otherwise say. "Why is it so important that he hasn't been instructed?"

There was a pause.

"I thought," Albus began, "No, I _assumed_ that Tom was telling him to do it. That Tom was making a gamble…however, it appears that he never gambled in the first place, and has reaped all the rewards of the winning bet."

"Come again?"

"Mr. Potter has not revealed his element yet, yes?"

Severus frowned at the segue. "He has not. It is not unorthodox, but certainly sets him at the lowest group of students. Previous students who have failed to reveal all have been expelled soon enough."

"Not all," the headmaster corrected. "Most."

"…An important distinction to make?"

"Very much so. You know well that one who has discovered their element will quickly find a cultivation technique. Training elemental power alongside _martial_ power eases the burden on the body significantly, and there are many more advantages to practicing both at the same time. But you must also know, my boy, that cultivating a technique has some disadvantages as well."

"Trivial disadvantages compared with the returns," Severus waved off. He knew all this. "The faster one cultivates, the better. Let the soul grow with the body. One is nothing without the other. What is your point, Albus?"

The Grand Master shook his head and plowed on. "A cultivation technique must be compatible with your elements. Once a practitioner begins cultivating, it is very, very difficult—say, impossible—to nurture the other elements. If the technique is only compatible with the primary element, then raising the secondary element is like pulling teeth from a dragon—"

If Albus wanted to discuss theory, then Severus would humor him. "It matters little. Few have secondary elements, fewer have double primary elements. Even at Hogwarts, the number of students that have a second element is half, and the number of students with more than two is at most a quarter of them. It is impossible to naturally raise an incompatible element to secondary level, so the 'sacrifice,' if you insist on it being one, is minor."

"Not impossible. _Improbable_."

"Fine," Severus snapped. "The chances are infinitesimally small— _though they exist_ —so the loss of opportunity is trivial compared to the gains from cultivating a technique. On top of that, cultivation techniques can add additional elemental power depending on which we are discussing, so losing an innate element is not a big loss in the grand scheme of things."

"The chances are specifically one percent for each level," Albus said.

That…wasn't information Severus had ever heard before, and he was almost Master tier. If _he_ hadn't heard it before—and he lived in a school—then what were the chances of others knowing about it?

"I beg your pardon?"

"For an element to move from incompatible to secondary, the chance is approximately one percent. Nicolas would like to argue it is, in fact, _less_ , but one percent is the accepted theory."

Accepted theory? By _who_?

"From secondary to primary, it is also one percent," continued the Grand Master. "This is for each element. If we assume a person has one innate primary element, then it i 10-8 percent chance for that person to move all incompatible elements to secondary. To move all secondary elements to primary, it become 10-18 percent chance. You are correct—those are relatively infinitesimally small odds for a growing child. It would be a terrible sacrifice to postpone a child's development and bet on those odds.

"Do you know, Severus, that Mr. Potter did not reveal an element because he asked to be excluded from the test?"

The element test was a private affair. Of course he didn't know, and of course Albus _did_. Such an unorthodox request would be alerted to the headmaster first, and he had allowed it.

Severus took a deep breath. "Albus. You have a point. I have not heard it yet."

He wasn't smiling. "I could only sense that Mr. Potter had a primary in light on the day of the examination. Tom was always a brilliant student—he would have the ability to tell more, I believe...at any point in time that he wishes. To track his progress, perhaps?"

 _The winning lottery ticket_. Severus thought he would rather like a drink, right now.

"It was a mistake to let him go."

Albus slowly shook his head. "There will be no battles on Hogwarts grounds."

"How much will it matter?"

Instead of answering—which was an incriminating answer by itself, Severus thought bitterly—Albus turned to look at the problem with another eye. "I believe there may be some good out of this. Fate works in mysterious ways, my boy—and we, powerful we may be, are still mortal and incapable of understanding Her. Why were you interested in Harry Potter? Why was I privy to information the rest of the world has been concealed from? Why, on that day, did Tom decide to step forward? Ah…we may never know, dear boy. We may never know…and yet…"

"I saw her," _and him_ , "in his eyes," _in his face_ , "but Lily and James never had a child." _I would know._ Severus, of all people, _would know_.

Albus sighed. He was beginning to hate that sound.

"Tell me, my boy, what do you know about prophecies?"


End file.
